What Stays The Same
by staringatstars07
Summary: Dean investigates Sam's demon summons because he's pretty sure his little brother has gone and done something dumb in yet another attempt to bring him back from Hell. He's right, of course.


"Lose your soul again, Sammy? Or did you trade it?" From the flowerbed on which he stood, Dean stared down his nose at his little brother, taking in the cold, mechanical way in which he aimed the demon-killing blade at his heart, his inky black eyes glittering with the first sparks of anger. "All depends how damn stupid you are, I guess."

He hadn't needed the angel radar to tell that something was off about the summons. Usually, Sam's near daily rituals manifested themselves in a slight, easily ignorable tug in his abdomen, like an ill-digested burrito. But they always brought with them a metallic taste in his mouth, a sour desperation that made him want to spit sulfur.

It was hard to recognize when he didn't know the signs, but the sheer lack of, well, _anything_ had set off instincts older than he was, instincts which he'd blatantly disregarded by seeking out the danger instead of avoiding it.

Instead of answering, Sam straightened, fixing him with his best 'the lights are on but nobody's home' expression before lunging without warning. But even without human limitations, without guilt or doubt or remorse, the fact remained that he just wasn't fast enough to beat a demon.

Casually, like he was only in the park for a stroll, Dean sidestepped the charge, pivoted without breaking stride, then struck, latching onto Sam's arms with a cobra's speed and brutal efficiency. Before Sam could even draw in a breath, his dominant was wretched behind his back, while his remaining hand pressed against his side, having been pinned there by an immovable force.

Grinning at Sam's useless attempts to free himself – really, what did he think was going to happen when he challenged a demon? – Dean then set upon his next order of business. Although he didn't quite have an angel's finesse when it came to finding soul marks, if causing the Marked to writh and scream in agony could really be called that, he knew a thing or two about finding evidence of a crossroad demon's touch on the body.

And sure enough, right above Sam's right shoulder blade, was a demon's signature.

At first, Dean could only blink dumbly at the sight of it, then he shrugged, chalking the coincidence up to God's twisted plan or whatever, and pressed a thumb to the mark, causing it to glow a smoldering red, alight with the fires of Hell itself.

Since the results of a successful summons were meant to be instant, Dean felt his upper lip begin to curl in frustration after a few seconds had passed without any response, until his senses suddenly kicked into overdrive, screaming at him to turn around. He twisted sharply, ignoring the futile bucks of his brother, to see a young woman with a bright orange bob, jeans, and a plain white t-shirt smirking coyly in his direction. Her round eyes were empty and blacker than the abyss. "Miss me, already?" Cocking her hips slightly, she added, "Don't tell me the great Knight of Hell is getting lonely."

"Hey, Belle," Dean replied evenly, "I see you're trying on a new meat suit."

Clapping her hands like the high schooler she was wearing, Belle grinned, "Oh! Do you like it?" She twirled in a circle, allowing the air to catch and lift the edges of her skirt, before adding with a wink, "She's a virgin."

Dean looked her up and down, utterly unimpressed. Still, he plastered on the most charming smile he could muster, and wielded it like a blade. "Sorry to cut the pleasantries short, dollface," he said easily, though he wasn't actually the least bit sorry, "but my brother seems to have misplaced his soul. Again. Any ideas where it might be?"

He tried not to sound overly accusing, didn't want to send her on the defensive after all, but something must have slipped through because she met his steady gaze for several beats before blowing out a noisy sigh. She shifted, averting her eyes. "Oh, don't look at me like that." A pout tugged at her full lips. "I traded for it, fair and square."

Unwilling to tip his hand as of yet, Dean went for the casual yet vaguely threatening route when he allowed his lips to part slightly, baring a sliver of teeth, and quirked an inquiring brow, "Yeah? Mind telling me what he traded for?"

Her answering giggle was a high-pitched thing, short and tinged with madness, "A chance to see you. Isn't that sweet?" Almost as an afterthought, she added, "Sure, he was a little drunk and I may have betrayed the spirit of the deal just a little…"

Exasperated, Dean shook his head. "Belle, come on, we're demons, not used car salesmen. We can't answer the summons of every intoxicated human with a death wish." There wouldn't be any room left in Hell.

"Not a death wish, sweetheart." She laughed girlishly again – mischief, not malice, lighting up forest green eyes - and for a moment, Dean could almost imagine that it really was an innocent girl he was talking to, "A Dean wish."

"I cannot believe you went there, but okay. Give it back and we'll call it a day."

Edging closer to thrashing, kicking, snarling Sam, she leaned in close, one finger raised like she was tempted to poke him, "Why not leave him like this? He's way more fun this way."

Having finally had enough of her antics, Dean growled a warning.

She put her hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Jeez," with a roll of her eyes, she muttered, "touchie." And while Dean pondered how he'd managed to foster such blantant disrespect amongst Hell's lower echelons, she darted forward to press a soft kiss to Sam's lips, cutting him off mid-curse.

After that, she went scarce, vanishing before Dean could change his mind about blasting her to oblivion. Leaving him with Sam limp in his arms.

Gingerly, Dean laid him on the ground, then retreated, lingering just long enough to watch his sleeping brother doze on the sidewalk with something impossibly close to fondness.

By the time Sam woke to find himself lying down in the middle of a public park, he was alone. But his hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions, as though someone had stuck their hand in and ruffled it while he was sleeping.


End file.
